Page 47 of Matteo

"On it, Da," he chirps, and I can hear the smirk in his voice without even looking.

"Da is Irish, Niko..." I grumble, but I'm talking to the boy's back now as he scampers off, eager as a pup.

"I know, felt strange to say it too," he admits, and there's something in those words that catches in my chest, something warm and dangerous like a live wire.

I watch him disappear, and it strikes me—I don't mind this 'dad' gig. Not one fucking bit.

The clinkof dirty dishes mocks me, a goddamn symphony of domesticity. I'm elbow-deep in suds, scrubbing away at the remnants of tonight's feast, and I can't help but wonder howthe hell I ended up here. The kingpin of Sydney’s underbelly playing house like some aproned matriarch. Fucking unbelievable.

Eleanor and Niko, they've got a knack for vanishing when shit needs doing. Convenient, that. And me? I'm left contemplating the emasculating reality of becoming the mob's answer to a Stepford wife. Pathetic. But the thing is, I don't even bristle at the thought like I should. Maybe it's the way Eleanor's laughter cuts through the silence or how Niko looks up to me more than he fears me. It softens a man. Or maybe it just fucks with his head.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, a violent reminder of the world beyond these four walls. I yank it out, pressing it to my ear without hesitation. "Matteo," I grunt, voice laced with irritation and ready for war.

"Boss, I got him." The voice on the other end is Spike, and his words are sweet as sin.

"Office or warehouse?"

"Warehouse, boss."

"Good." I shove the plate I'm holding back into the sink, water splashing in protest. "On my way." Those dishes can rot for all I care. Duty calls, and the devil doesn't do dishes.

I storm upstairs, stripping off the domestic façade and sliding into the skin of who I really am. In minutes, I'm encased in black—tailored to intimidation. No jacket tonight, not with the heat clinging to Sydney like a second skin.

I find her in the library, lost in pages like she's searching for salvation between the lines. Eleanor. She's oblivious until I'm practically breathing down her neck, a ghost hauntingher tranquil moment. "Good book?" I ask, voice dripping with a mixture of amusement and accusation.

Her cheeks flush, betraying her thoughts before she even speaks. "Um yes, it is, thank you." Her fingers twitch, pulling at her shirt as if she could hide behind cotton and modesty.

"Is my Princess reading a dirty book?" The tease rolls off my tongue, a familiar dance between us.

"It's the only kind I read," she retorts, throat working to swallow her embarrassment. She's adorable when she's flustered, downright irresistible.

"Listen," I start, my tone hardening with the gravity of what's to come. "I hate to rip you from your fantasy land, but there's trouble. Get dressed, bring your smut with you. You're gonna need the escape."

Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of concern before she masks it with that ironclad poise she wears so well. "I understand," she says, rising to her feet, the book clutched in her hand like a lifeline.

"Good girl." The words slip out, a blend of pride and something darker, something that revels in her obedience. It's fucked up, this power dynamic we dance around, but it's our dance, and we know the steps by heart.

"Give me ten minutes," she says, already moving towards our bedroom with a purpose in her step.

I snatch the smutty novel from her hands, thumb fanning through the pages. "Don't lose my page," Eleanor warns.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I murmur.

Ten minutes drag by, my eyes skimming over words that'd make a whore blush, and I'm no prude. But this shit—three men bending to one woman's will—it's a far cry from the life I lead. It wraps its fingers around my gut, tugs with an odd sort of envy. "Do women really get off on this?" The question hangs heavy as Eleanor reappears, all long legs and lethal looks, hair bound high like she's ready for war rather than whatever twisted fantasy that book promises.

"Hey, I said don't lose my page," she snaps, reclaiming her book with a quick, practiced move. There's a challenge in her eye, a mischief that says she knows exactly where that page was heating up, and so do I now, my body reacting traitorously beneath my pants.

"Come on, I thought we had somewhere to be," she teases, slipping her hand down, palm pressing just enough to draw a stifled groan from my lips. "Nice to see someone enjoyed the book."

"Fuck," I hiss, adjusting myself while she tosses me a wicked grin over her shoulder before descending the stairs. What else can I do but follow?

"Seriously, we need to talk about that book," I grumble, trailing after her like some lovesick goon when I'm anything but. She pauses at the door, turns, and I'm struck by how the streetlights cast her in a halo of danger.

"Matteo, why are you all dressed to kill at 7 pm?" Her voice slices through the bullshit, brings me back to the brink of reality.

"Right, in the car," I deflect, scratching at my neck where the collar feels too damn tight.

"Is Angel here?" Her gaze searches past me, seeking reassurance in the form of our most trusted ally.

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